Love Is
by Last Haven
Summary: A collection of seven stories from the Sweethearts Week at the usxuk livejournal community. Contains genderbending, het, slash, femslash, AUs, romance, drama, and humor.
1. Waiting

**A/N: This year, I joined in for the Sweethearts Week event at usxuk community on livejournal. This story is a collection of oneshots I wrote for the event; all have been betaread by the lovely Ellarose C. Some chapters will contain genderbending, het, yuri, and of course, yaoi.**

**This chapter's prompt was "Touch".**

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><p>America stared hard at his watch as the minute hand slowly revolved its face. England's plane was supposed to arrive from Dublin so that he could join America for a three week visit twenty minutes ago. It was technically for work—their bosses wanted them both present as representatives hammered out the finishing details on a new project before signing some papers. In reality, neither of them were especially necessary to the talks and could have probably talked their way out of it, but they hadn't seen each other for nearly three months, and it was as good as an excuse to see each other as anything. Sitting through some mind-numbingly boring meetings would be a small price to pay for getting to see each other for nearly a whole month.<p>

However, England's plane was still late by twenty minutes and it was beginning to wear on America. If the plane took much longer, there would be absolutely no time to drag his boyfriend off to kiss each other senseless in the bathroom like he planned. He grumbled to himself and fidgeted in his chair to the disapproval of one of the officials who had been sent to greet the British party of politicians.

Ten minutes later, America was slumped half way down his chair, so thoroughly depressed he almost missed the announcement of the plane arriving from Dublin. He jolted upward when the people around him stood then nearly leapt to his feet when he saw the first person come out. Craning his neck, he all but stood on his tiptoes to see over the crowd—he didn't care what he looked like. He hadn't seen his boyfriend in ages, and damnit, what did he care that he looked over eager—he _was_ eager!

At last, the British party entered the terminal and America grinned when he spotted a familiar hair of messy blond hair. America would bet that England had fallen asleep on the flight and had forgotten to pack a comb with him again by the way the back of his hair stood up at unnatural angles.

Despite how excited he was to see his fellow nation, he forced himself to stay put as the British officials slowly made their way to them, although he could do little to stop from fidgeting. After what seemed like an absurdly long time to move nearly twenty feet, the two groups met up and began to greet each other.

Under threat of punishment from his boss for bad behavior—mainly running the risk of having so much paperwork dumped on him it would take him a month to dig himself out, thus destroying any chance of going on an actual date—America managed to smile and warmly greet each British politician until at last England stepped up to him. Rather than toss himself at England and smother him desperately with kisses, America struggled to keep his greeting to a firm handshake and the warmest smile he could manage.

In front of him, England's polite façade fell off for a moment and he regarded America with one of his rare genuine smiles, one that actually reached his eyes, setting off a glimmer there that nearly wrecked America's self control. "Hello, Alfred," England murmured quietly.

"Long time no see," America answered a little too eagerly for someone greeting a supposed colleague. He realized belatedly that he needed to let go of England's hand now, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. England's touch was like a shock of electricity, waking up some sensitivity in his hands that seemed to catalogue every detail of the Brit's hand. They were slightly cool but dry, skin pulled tight across the knuckles but calloused in many places of the palm and fingers, scars hidden to all but America's keen sight because he knew where to look for them. Three months he dreamed of these hands—it took all his will power not to pull the extremity up to his lips to press a kiss to the knuckles. England, however, probably wouldn't appreciate that, no matter how loving gesture.

Finally, he forced his fingers to uncurl; to his relief, he saw England pull his hand away with just as much hesitancy. He smiled up at England, but the island nation only glanced away and coughed. "Sorry for the delay; the boarding took longer than expected."

"Dude, it's an airplane—at least you're only half an hour late instead of a full hour," he replied with a grin, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep them from wandering.

"Don't fidget, America," England scolded, switching from English to the language all nations spoke. The other representatives didn't need to hear him criticizing America.

"Yes, _Mom."_

England pinned America with a stare that left America grinning; oh, with a look like that, America _knew_ he was going to get it tonight. He could hardly wait.

One of the other diplomats spoke, suggesting they get moving to their meeting. America bit his lip to keep from pouting; he and England wouldn't be sharing a car ride to the meeting. When America's last boss found out that they had skipped a meeting to go fuck like a pair of rabbits, he'd forbidden them from sharing a car before meetings, and told his next boss to do the same. To be fair, if he and England were taking the same car this time, it would totally happen again.

Giving his boyfriend one last incredibly indiscrete look of longing, America followed his politicians to the cars waiting outside for them. The ride wasn't long, but it was maddeningly boring when all he could think about was how England was only a few cars behind him, but just as untouchable as before.

When they got to the meeting room, he failed to hide a grin as England sidled up next to him, taking the seat at his side. They had barely sat down for a minute before he felt England's hand cover his own.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he smiled as he watched England feign attention to the proceedings before him. Slowly, he turned his hand so he could thread their fingers together, letting their joined hands rest between them.

Cool but dry, tight but calloused, scarred but beautiful, America's world seemed to shrink down to that point of contact. After three months of only texting, phone calls, and a rare webcam session, it was hardly enough to begin to satisfy America. It would have to do, anyway.

Smiling like the dope he was, he ran his thumb over England's knuckles and reveled in the touch as England squeezed back.


	2. Beneath the Waves and on the Wing

**A/N: Prompt was 'Once Upon a Time'. Based _very_ loosely on the Inuit story _Raven and the Whale_. Bonus points if you get the connections between both animals to the characters. This chapter contains genderbending and het.**

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><p>When the world was young and man was in its infancy, the Magician lived on the edge of the village. As a child, his mother taught him of magic and the ways of healing, something that made the villagers turn from him in fear. After his mother passed on, he found himself lonely in his small hut near the seashore. He watched as the people of the village grew up and started families, finding love and happiness in each other that the Magician never could find for himself.<p>

After some years, he grew sick of the loneliness and set out to find a companion to ease his pain. Using his magic, he turned into a raven and flew across the vast forests and mountains, hoping that perhaps he might find someone there to befriend. Along the way, he visited many villages and met many new people, but none of them wanted to be friends with him. At each rejection, he grew more disheartened for the next step of his journey. He turned his wings from the forests and mountains, and towards the sea, hoping the people there might be different. Miles sped below his wings, but the rocky shore remained barren, not a soul in sight. The wind caught him and bore further out to sea; the Magician's wings grew sore, his lungs began to burn, and then, quite suddenly, he found the sea rising up to meet him.

The punch of the icy water smacked his world back into focus, then numbed him as his feathers soaked up water. The undertow caught his limbs and pulled him down until all he could see of the sun was a faint, glimmering splotch of light dancing high above him. Just as his eyes slipped closed, another, greater current caught him and pulled him back from the depths, sweeping him up. Everything became dark, but when he finally gave in and opened his maw for a desperate breath, it was not water that rushed in, but somewhat stale, fishy smelling air. He shed his spell and chose to lie upon the ground for a moment, gasping in great gulps of air with delicious relief until the shock began to wear off.

"Well, it seems I have a new visitor! Don't get many of those."

The voice was warm and cheery; when the Magician opened his eyes and gazed upward, he found a smiling maiden peering back at him. In all his travels, the Magician had never seen another woman like her—her hair was unfashionably short, barely brushing her shoulders, her face open and unafraid of him, but strangest of all was the faint halo of light that glimmered about her when she moved.

She giggled at him. "What's the matter, sir? Cat got your tongue?" she asked with a cheeky grin before straightening up. "Or rather, _whale_ got your tongue?"

"What?" he managed after a moment, picking himself up only with great effort.

"Easy there." The woman took pity on him and helped him sit up, although that didn't stop her from laughing again. "Anyway, I said whale—that's where you are now. Didn't you see the teeth and tongue when you were pulled in?"

"Forgive me for being distracted," the Magician retorted, but there was no heat in his words. Shock, exhaustion, and curiosity sapped any ire he might have felt to her. "Next time I nearly drown, I'll try to pay more attention."

The maiden laughed and slapped his back so hard his head snapped forward. "See to it! At any rate, you might as well get comfortable—we don't need more air for now, so we won't see the surface for some time."

She was right in the end; with little else that could be done from inside the whale, he began to talk to her to pass the time. She made for an interesting conversationalist, but she only gave a tight lipped, impish smile when he tried to discover her origins or anything to do with her oddities, such as the halo that appeared when she moved.

Oh, how she could move! When she tired of sitting, she stood, and when that bored her she began to hum and then dance. Not a simple shuffle of her feet or a sway of her hips, but great leaps, spins, and dips. The grace displayed in each gesture went beyond practice into pure talent; every move was lively and frenetic, or precise and sweeping. Never had he seen such dances, not once in all his travels. He watched in wonder as she finished one dance before quickly moving into another.

He forgot how to speak as he watched her sway until she stilled into a curious pose; one foot turned out, the other extended before her, her body turned to him with one hand resting above her heart while she extended the other to him. Unsure, he stared for a moment before she smiled and stretched her hand out further. "Won't you dance with me, my friend?"

His heart thudded against his ribs and he slowly uncurled his fist and lifted his hand to rest in hers; her smile morphed into a full on grin and she pulled him to his feet.

"I don't know how to dance," he admitted as she began to tug him in place behind her, wrapping one of his hands against her waist while she posed the other into an identical position as her, raised up into the air.

"Really?"

"Well, at least not like you dance."

She winked at him. "I'll go slow, then."

True to her word, she showed him the steps first—an easy repetition of steps from side to side—and then began to work on the movement of his arms until he could dance without error, both of them practically galloping through the moves despite being breathless from laughing.

"Where did you learn to dance like that?" he finally managed as he pulled away.

Despite the loss of her partner, she continued to sway. "That is a secret," she giggled before doing a few quick spins. "But, to be truthful, these dances were always meant for ordinary humans—the teachers, however, failed to find a way to pass on the lessons."

The Magician cocked his head to the side and frowned. "People were meant to do these dances?"

"Yes—they are parts of rituals, you see. But, I'm afraid I'm the only one left who remembers these dances."

"Well," he murmured, considering the Dancer carefully. "I suppose that means you have a duty to pass your knowledge on."

"Oh no," she answered, stopping her dance altogether as she gazed at him seriously. "I can never leave here. I have always been here and here I will stay." And with that, she went back to dancing and refused to answer his questions. All except one.

"Did you mean what you said?"

She paused to consider him. "That depends—what did I say?"

He colored and looked at his feet. "Did you mean it when you called me your friend? We've only just met."

For once, he was not disappointed. She smiled gently at him and pressed a hand to his cheek. "Wouldn't you like to be my friend?"

The smile on his face felt unfamiliar, but it was there all the same. "I… yes. I would like that. I would like it greatly."

"Then let me dance for you some more—it'll pass the time at least!"

At long last, the whale came to the surface and fresh air flooded in. The Magician thought of leaving, but when he saw the Dancer smiling at him, looking at him with the warmth that he longed for so badly, he merely rose and joined her in her dance.

They remained like that for some time—their days spent talking and dancing. She taught him many more dances, until at last she declared she had nothing else to teach him. She gazed at him with such pride and affection that he couldn't stop himself from bending down to press his lips against hers. She paused, and for a moment he worried that she would reject him, but instead she slowly wound her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. That night, as he watched her golden light glimmer as she moved above him, he knew that he would love her until the day he died. He swore to himself that when the next time the whale rose to the surface, he would transform and take her with him so that he could show her all the wonders to be found on land and in the sky.

He nearly missed his chance; the whale surfaced early in the morning, surprising him awake. He was almost too slow, but he managed to grab her and transform just in time to slip past the whale's teeth.

The minute they escaped, his beloved Dancer shrieked as though she was cleaved in two and fell limp in his arms. He was so startled, he forgot his plans to show her the lands from the sky and instead swopped down to the shore.

As he descended, the halo about her vanished. He thought she was growing pale for a moment before he realized she wasn't going pale, but rather completely transparent. He gazed at her in utter horror as she began to fade away.

"Oh, you fool," she sighed with a smile, tenderly placing the palm of her hand against his cheek. "You didn't get it, did you? I was the soul of the whale, but now the whale is dead and I shall disappear."

Something in him was dying with every detail of her fading from his sight, he was certain of it. "I'm sorry," he sobbed, scrambling to think of anything he knew from all the magic his mother taught him that could help her. Nothing came to mind and it was all he could keep to do from breaking down and weeping. "I—I didn't know!"

Her gaze drifted from him to the sky. "I should have told you, but I—I had waited so long for someone to talk to… Oh, please, don't forget me, and don't forget the dances I taught you! If you do then I shall truly be gone and I…"

"I swear! I shall remember and dance them always, but please, please don't go!"

Before she could answer, she vanished completely. His arms remained coiled uselessly in the air as he gazed down at the space she had just laid. He raised his hands up to his face and began to cry into his palms.

The Magician remained on the rocky beach for a long time, consumed in his sorrow as he played over every memory of her he had in his mind, trying desperately to memorize every detail. As he remembered, he climbed to his feet and began to dance, hoping the practice would ingrain the memories better. Gradually, he began to dance faster and faster, singing the songs she had hummed to him as well.

As he danced, people from a local village found him. They watched in awe as he performed the whale soul's dances with all the grace the Dancer had shown. When he finally finished, the bravest among them walked up to him and begged him to teach them his dance.

Staring at them, he felt strangely hollowed out, but oddly better. He nodded and began to show them the moves the Dancer once taught him. As he instructed them, he remembered how the Dancer once told him that her dances had always been meant for humans. _Perhaps_, he wondered as he corrected one person's stance, _perhaps this is what she would want._ Maybe he could forgive himself if he showed her dances to every village, teaching the dances to everyone so she would never fear being forgotten.

Once he finished teaching all the dances to the village, he moved onto the next village and taught the people there. He began to travel once more, heading to new settlements to teach the dances and songs of the Dancer until at last he returned to the shore an old, bent man. In the distance, he saw the white of a whale's spray and smiled to himself before he closed his eyes for the last time.

As his body sat there, it took on a golden glow and vanished from sight.


	3. An Occupational Hazard

**A/N: Sorry, got busy today. Anyway, this was written for the "Taking Care of Business" prompt. This chapter is a human AU.**

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><p>Sitting down at his desk, Arthur settled into his chair that squeaked and moaned with the slightest shift of movement. Once he was properly situated, he turned to his typewriter; while Alfred jumped at the chase to tease him about being old fashioned, typewriters always held more allure to him. He felt more professional typing on one than he did at a computer, with the added benefit that he couldn't just go back and delete something, forcing him to keep going. After a quick inspection of the typewriter itself—keys moving smoothly still, no jams, the ribbon brand new, and a clean sheet of paper already fed into it—he began his final preparations. Grabbing his left index finger first, he carefully adjusted his hold and then pressed back until the knuckle cracked. He continued on to each finger and then his other hand before he laced his fingers together and gave one final crack.<p>

"That," Alfred announced as he paused at the bedroom door, "was disgusting."

Arthur scowled at the interruption. "Don't you have some birds to feed?"

Alfred grinned and left. Shaking his head, Arthur returned his attention to his typewriter. Gently, he eased his fingertips onto the keys, adjusting them while he tried to think what to write first. Since this would be a new chapter, he typed in the chapter number, something he would change on the next draft.

Where to begin though? The last chapter hadn't ended on a cliffhanger, otherwise he would already have something to work with off the bat. Instead, he was starting fresh and while he had an idea in mind for the end of the chapter, deciding what his characters would do at the beginning left him stumped. Should they immediately continue on their journey, or would they prefer to wait to gather supplies before leaving?

With a shrug, he settled on having his main character rallying the other members of their party to set off. Just as his fingers graced the keys once more, a cacophony of loud, sharp shrieking made Arthur jump in his chair. Pressing a hand to his chest, he whipped around in his chair to gaze at the open door. "What did you do in there; try to murder one of them?"

"No! The barn owlets just fighting over food, s'all," Alfred called back.

Shaking his head, Arthur got up from his chair and wandered over to the door. Outside in the kitchen, Alfred stood over a tall crate, dangling a mess of some hacked up animal from the beak of the barn owl puppet he used to feed the birds. It would do none of them any good if the owlets imprinted on Alfred—they were only at the sanctuary until they could hunt and survive on their own, after all. Arthur just hoped Alfred wouldn't attach himself too much to the birds. He was already half in love with the bald eagle that had been brought in to recuperate from its brush with some electrical wires, and Arthur didn't want to see him get weepy over the owls as well.

"Hello, love."

Arthur blinked and looked to the side; as he thought, Alfred had left the door to the porch wide open again. In the doorframe, a large raven cocked his head to the side. "Hello, love," it repeated in a downright uncanny mimicry of Arthur's own voice. The raven, a charming fellow he named Bran, was a permanent resident of the sanctuary since his wing had been amputated after a severe break. It had picked up Arthur's own greeting to Alfred and now repeated it whenever he spotted Arthur. "Hello, love."

Arthur had to smile as he left the room to go crouch next to the bird. "Hello yourself. Breakfast?"

Bran instantly recognized that word as well. "Yummy!" he croaked—somehow, Alfred taught him to respond to words like "breakfast", "snack", and "you sexy thing" with "yummy". The raven shambled unsteadily inside and waited for Arthur to offer his arm before hopping up. Slowly so he wouldn't dump the bird, Arthur walked to the fridge to pull out his breakfast.

Taking the food out, Arthur set Bran on the counter so he could open the containers. The raven didn't want to make it easy for him; the moment he sat Bran down, the bird began to squawk and pick at his sleeves, begging him to hurry up. Arthur studiously ignored Alfred's muttered "and you worry _I'll _get attached" and focused on Bran until the raven was satisfied. Once finished, he offered the bird his arm again to perch on and took him back outside before shutting the door on Bran's offended squawking.

Inside, Alfred was still feeding the owlets, who had thankfully quieted down. Arthur paused for a moment over the box to peer in; inside, five owlets gave him steady, unblinking stares as they bobbed about, nearly in unison. Arthur had never thought of owls being strange or unnerving before he married Alfred and joined him at the sanctuary up in the mountains, but damn if the almost hypnotic movements didn't set his teeth on edge faster than Alfred could cringe at a horror movie.

"How are they doing?" he asked as Alfred picked out some more shredded animal to feed them.

"Really well!" Alfred grinned as he lowered his hand into the box. Arthur leaned away in distaste as the birds began to squabble again over the food. "Given a couple more weeks, they'll be ready to go."

Humming his acknowledgement, Arthur turned and headed back to their room. "I'll leave you to them—I need to get twenty pages done by Friday, so try to keep it down, will you?"

"Well, I'll try, but no promises."

Arthur grunted and slipped into the room, shutting the door and making a beeline for his desk. As he swung into his seat, he stretched his fingers once more before placing them on the keys.

And then he stared at the paper blankly. What was it he wanted to write again?

He glared down at the typewriter for several minutes, trying to find the plot thread he started once more, but even when he remembered the gist of it, he couldn't think of how to word any of it.

With a groan, he set his head down on the desk. Outside the room, he heard a shout from Alfred followed by a screeching racket of the owlets. _Sounds like he got pecked again._

Giving his typewriter one last glare of disgust, he abandoned his desk to go bandage his husband up again.


	4. Getting Away

**A/N: Sorry for the late update, was busy today and forgot to post. This chapter was made for the "Holidaymaking" prompt and contains genderbending and femslash.**

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><p>"What's all this?" Alice asked, pausing to set her grocery bags down on the kitchen counter as she gazed into the living room. Twenty minutes ago, Amelia had presented her with a newspaper ad that read that all their ice cream was buy one pint, get another free. After much begging and with the sworn oath that once she had the ingredients, Amelia would make one of her first class banana sundaes, Alice reluctantly left.<p>

Her girlfriend finally crawled out of the makeshift tent she constructed in the middle of the living room using blankets and chairs, grinning and waving at her as she sat up. "Finally! I was thinking of sending a search party."

"I had to wait in a queue," Alice explained, walking over to her girlfriend while gazing dubiously at the structure before her. "I'm still waiting for an answer."

"What, you mean this?" Amelia asked, cocking her head to the side like it was Alice who was weird for not immediately accepting the tent. "It's my blanket fort."

"Your fort," the Brit repeated, eyeing it still. "May I ask why you made it?"

Amelia's smile was blindingly bright and proud. "I figure that if we can't go camping with my family in the woods, then we could at least camp out in our living room!"

Alice looked back to the fort, raising an eyebrow; she knew that her girlfriend had been disappointed when the camping trip had been cancelled, but perhaps she hadn't realized how much it bothered her. When Amelia's father had broken his leg falling while working, Amelia was besides herself with worry, but a month later when he revealed that there was no way he could make the trip and that Amelia's sister had backed out as well, she had reluctantly accepted. While Amelia might not have spoken much about her disappointment, Alice wondered if she should have realized it anyway, what with the way Amelia had drummed up the trip.

A prod to her hip brought Alice back to reality; Amelia grinned up at her. "You like it?"

Alice smiled before tucking a wavy lock of hair back behind the American's ear. "You did a good job, poppet."

Beaming at her, Amelia jumped to her feet. "Good! I knew you would—so, didja get the stuff?"

Chuckling, Alice jerked her head back to the kitchen. "It's all in there, waiting for you."

Amelia cheered and pressed a kiss to the green eyed woman's cheek before nearly skipping into the kitchen, leaving Alice to tag along behind her. The American quickly began to pull out all of the ingredients before diving towards the cupboards to pull out spoons and bowls. Resting her elbows against the counter, Alice smiled as her girlfriend set about making one large sundae for herself and a much smaller one for Alice.

After she finished 'crafting her masterpieces' as she put it, Amelia grabbed Alice's hand and dragged her underneath the blanket. Inside, she already set up a nest of blankets and pillows. Alice barely got settled down before Amelia cried out that she forgot something and scrambled out of the tent. Looking up as the shadow of her girlfriend vanished from sight, Alice blinked rapidly as the whole room suddenly went dark. "Amelia, what are you doing?"

"Shh, it's cooler this way! And watch out, I'm coming back in," she announced before Alice heard her clambering clumsily through the tent's entrance. Amelia nearly put her hand in Alice's sundae and then her own before she settled down besides Alice.

"Now what, oh fearless leader?"

"I'm getting to that part. Hold on while I… aha!" she yelled before Alice heard a switch click. A white glow poured out from under Amelia's hands, which she quickly pulled back. "I found this in my closet and I totally realized what we needed to do with it. Look up already."

Curious, Alice glanced up and smiled. Splattered across the walls of the tent, tiny stars glowed, still until Amelia fiddled with some control on the projector to get the stars to rotate.

"So?" Amelia prompted, reaching out to prod her girlfriend's side.

With a chuckle, Alice swatted the hand poking her side. "It's lovely. Now, don't you think we should eat these sundaes before they melt all over?"

Amelia laughed and dug into her food. After they ate, they lay back and watched the stars dancing above them. It became quite hypnotic, and Alice was almost asleep when she heard Amelia sit up. Glancing sleepily upward, she found the other blonde grinning almost manically—which could either mean that Alice was going to have some impromptu oral or Amelia was planning on starting a fire in the living room in a misguided attempt to make s'mores. Either way, Alice sat up and watched her girlfriend through narrowed as eyes as she stood up, slipping between the two blankets that made up the top of the tent.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asked at last when Amelia began to pull the tent apart.

"I got an idea! Wanna help me out here, sweetie?" she chirped.

Shrugging after a moment, Alice got up and helped moved the pillows and blankets out. Amelia quickly stopped her from putting them away in the linen closet, grabbing the pillows out of her arms before she dragged the cushions off the couch and chair before she began to set up two smaller forts.

Thoroughly confused, Alice kept staring. "Amelia, what _are_ you doing?"

"Setting up our battlements—this one's mine, and that one there's yours. Me and Meggy used to do this all the time when we were little," Amelia explained before pausing her arrangement of the pillows. "Then again, we used to have Nerf guns to play with. I wonder what we could use now?"

Alice stared at her girlfriend and wondered why she wasn't confused to learn that she played with traditional boy's toys. Slowly shaking her head, Alice scooped down to pick up the ice cream bowls. As she bent down, a sudden thought popped into her head; she almost dismissed it as soon as thought it, it was just so ridiculous, but considering her girlfriend's antics, she would probably love it. And for that, Alice was willing to sacrifice a little pride.

"What?" Amelia asked as Alice quickly straightened and then hurried over to her side.

"Take care of these, please," Alice said, shoving the bowls into the American's hands before pressing a kiss to her cheek and turning to hurry towards their bedroom. "I'll be right back."

Hoping that Amelia would for once do as she was told, Alice paused at the door before heading to the closet. Digging around, she searched the cluttered mess at the bottom of the closet until she found what she wanted. Grinning at her own luck, she took out her prizes and left the room.

Amelia was not in the living room; she had actually listened and went into the kitchen to rinse off the dishes before stowing them in the drying rack. Alice cleared her throat and let Amelia turn around before tossing her one of the items.

"What is-?" Amelia began before quickly laughing at the foam rubber sword Alice tossed her way.

"En garde," Alice warned as she crouched into position; a dozen years of fencing practice gave her grace while Amelia only grinned and sloppily tried to copy her.

They spent the rest of the night racing around the apartment, swinging the swords around. While Alice had skill, Amelia was flat out aggressive. By the time they finished, they both fell onto the cushions of one of toppled forts, giggling at themselves as they curled up.

"Have fun, love?" Alice asked, dropping a kiss to Amelia's temple as she curled up against the Brit's side. Amelia beamed up at her.

"Yes—thank you. For everything."

Alice buried her face against Amelia's honeyed hair to hide her pleased blush. "Just so you're aware, you're the one who'll be putting the couch back together."

Amelia only laughed.


	5. Return to Coda

**A/N: Written for the "Music of My Heart" prompt; contains genderbending and femslash.**

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><p>For as long as any of her former colonies could remember, a piano had sat in England's parlor. She kept pianos in many of her estates, including the homes she owned during their colonial days. The one that she left to India was a sleek, black concert grand piano, an extravagant gift to remind her former charge of older days. In Canada's house in Ontario sat a baby grand piano, a present from both England and France, the keys worn down from oft use. There was an upright piano in Australia's home, scoffed up from the casual abuse of day to day life; more than once America saw Australia smile at it as fond memories cropped up of climbing up into their guardian's lap to watch her tickle the keys.<p>

The one England had left to America had been a bright, glossy upright piano as well. Unlike any of the other pianos England owned—even if they resided in her colonies' homes, very few tried to dispute that they were really hers—this piano was the loveliest one. It was a special custom creation, with delicate carvings of winding flowers and leaping animals on every flourish, the keys smooth and shining, and atop it was a vase always bursting with the best rose blooms America could grow in her garden. However, unlike all the others as well and despite its beauty, it sat dusty and unused. The reason was simple; unlike the others in England's empire, America could not play the piano. Oh, she tried so hard to learn, but not even the most patient of tutors could coax America's fingers into tapping out a tune.

It was tough for England to admit defeat, but in the end there was nothing to be done. That day after lunch, America started to trudge towards the parlor like a prisoner led to the gallows. She hadn't even made to the door before England sat her napkin down and called her back. "From now on," she began, pausing to gather strength and force the next words past her lips. "You will no longer be having piano lessons. Instead, I've decided that singing lessons would be more suitable for your… talents."

She expected America to perk up and cheer that she would never again have to face her dreaded lessons, or at the very least curiously question the change. What she did not expect was for the little girl to stare for a moment before bursting into tears on the spot. The tiny blonde sobbed wretchedly, curling her hands into fists, wrinkling up her skirts as she tossed back her head and wailed.

"America—what on earth—child, come here and stop that," she tried to order. America only half listened; the girl quickly flung her body into England's lap, but continued to weep into her guardian's skirts. Although utterly confused, England's heart went out to the little girl and she softened her tone. "Hush, little one—_shh_. Why on earth are you crying? Hush, love, hush."

It took several minutes and much shushing and coaxing before America quieted enough to explain her distress. "A-all the others get to play their pianos!"

England tamped down on the unhelpful urge to say 'yes, well, the others can play a tune rather than strangle it', and instead forced herself to find something kinder. "America, everyone has limitations, things that they cannot do. That's not a personal failing on their parts, and not being able to piano is one of yours. But you shouldn't let that get you down, dear girl."

America only sniffled. "But you said that when there's something you really want, you gotta struggle for it and to never give up."

Well. Damnit, England hated it when her colonies turned her words against her—something America was quite good at doing, actually. "I also say that you have to know when to pick your battles—don't waste your time doing something you can never accomplish. Besides, just because you aren't good at one thing, it doesn't mean you're not good at another—you're a wonderful singer, America! Don't you want to take lessons for that instead and get even better?"

Sniffing, America tried to wipe her running nose on her sleeve before England blanched and intercepted her with a handkerchief. "But what about evening practice?"

England blinked, pausing before gently dabbing at America's tears. "What about evening practice?"

America's little lips trembled in her most heart wrenching pout. "Does this mean you don't wanna practice with me anymore?"

In spite of every promise she made to herself that she would stop bending to America's whims, England nearly melted at that teary eyed expression on her little girl's sweet face. "Oh, oh—America, of course not. Only, this time, I'll be the one playing the piano and you can sing for me. Won't that be much more fun?"

Slowly, America's lips crept up in a smile until at last she nodded and laid her head back against her guardian's lap with a contented sigh.

Agreement made, England fondly recalled the many nights when she let America stay up too late as the girl sang like a nightingale for her while she played until her fingers cramped. The piano was a central part of England's visits to her charge, a part that she had thought both treasured in spite of everything that ended up coming between them. Like a keystone or support beam to the past, it felt like the world was crumbling around her once more when she returned to America's house to settle the negotiations in 1815 only to find the piano gone. If it weren't for her own diplomats, England would have throttled the American nation instead of separating the feuding twins like planned. Still, the absence nagged at her thoughts throughout the negotiations until she settled into her unhappy conclusion. While America blathered on with various excuses, she had mentioned the undeniable fact that America couldn't play the piano and it wasn't like others played it often enough to justify it taking up space.

(Truth: unlike the many other things America managed to shove into her storage room, the piano was simply too big and unwieldy to make it in without damaging it.)

(Another truth: America at first merely accepted the fact with a nod and sold the piano to a kind neighbor who had children and parties often. Later, however, when she studied the empty spot, she had to swipe away tears.)

While the excuse was certainly valid, part of England stung at the idea that _maybe_, had she visited more often, the piano might have seen enough use to justify keeping it.

(Truth: it would have.)

Even nearly two centuries later, after finally admitting that _maybe_ they might be/just possibly/had always been and always would be in love with each other, the lonely spot still sent a sliver into England's heart each time she came over. Despite new furniture claiming the spot, it remained barren in England's opinion.

And yet, the music never seemed to stop once England and America reunited. At America's house, England found herself pulled into merry dances as America spun her about to songs on her stereo. When America abruptly dropped into England's home, the former empire would always find herself serenaded, whether she was sitting at her own piano, fingers flying over the keys, or lying in bed while America tapped out the beat against her collarbone.

Piano or not, for those precious moments, an old, half forgotten warmth bubbled up in her stomach and time slipped away. Young or old, superior or equal, accompanied or alone, the music pushed past barriers leaving them as it always had. Two happy nations, together once more.


	6. Car Trouble

**A/N: Written for the "Worlds Beyond" prompt; this chapter contains genderbending and het.**

**Since the html has been stripped from profiles, I'd like to say that if you have a tumblr, you can now find me on there as well. My username is last-haven; I will try and keep it a mostly fanfic and/or fandom only blog.**

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><p>"I've fallen in love with someone," Amelia announced as soon as both her parents settled down on the couch across from her. It had taken ages longer than she hoped to get the two former spouses together in the same place, and her confession was rattling her every nerve the longer she held it in. "I'm going to marry him whether you like it or not."<p>

Her parents laughed at her. "So overdramatic," her mother chuckled as she took a sip from her cappuccino. "You say it like he's a serial killer."

"Really, pumpkin," her father joined in, grinning at her as he rested his chin against his knuckles. "I'm sure whoever this guy is, if you're so set on marrying him, he must be a good man. I'm glad you've found someone who managed to convince you to settle down at any rate!"

"Now, dear, why don't you tell us about this man? I haven't heard a peep about any boyfriend before this."

"Me neither," her father frowned, raising his head again. "He is a good man, ain't he?"

_Well, they seem to be taking this rather well, over all,_ she mused. "Oh, don't worry about that—he can be such a pain, but I'm sure you'll like him," she answered before pausing to smile mischievously at them. "We wanted to keep things low-key for awhile. I'm sorry it took so long to tell you."

"You're a big girl, Amelia," her mother replied, reaching out to pat her hand. "We trust you to tell us important things when you're ready to. But I'm sure your father would like to meet this man soon, wouldn't you, George?"

"Damn right I do!"

Amelia smiled. "Soon, I promise. Although… perhaps I shouldn't introduce you though. Knowing you two, you'll join forces with him and tease me to death."

Her parents laughed again. "But really, dear—who is this man?"

The butterflies in her stomach were trying to climb out her throat; her smile wobbled, but didn't vanish. "His name is Arthur." Her parents shared a smile so she forced herself on. "He's a prince." Her mother chuckled while her father beamed at her. "Of Britain."

Both her parents burst into warm laughter before quickly trailing off when they saw the look on her face.

"…Pumpkin? That was a joke, right?"

She shook her head. "No, daddy. I'm completely serious."

Her mother and father shared a look before her mother quietly sat her drink down, brow furrowed in confusion. "Perhaps you should start from the beginning."

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><p>HRH Prince Arthur glared at the engine of his car; when willing it to life failed to work, he kicked the tire and cursed. "Useless piece of shite," he grumbled as he wrenched open the driver's door and flung himself into the seat. Digging his keys back out of his pocket, he kept cursing. "Utter crock—I'm a naval officer, not a car mechanic—oh, start up, you bloody useless thing!"<p>

When beating on the dashboard proved of little help besides relieving some of his frustrations, he shoved his door back open and then slammed it behind him as he got out. Around him, the moor surrounding the road was silent except for the faint whistle of wind over ground. At least it wasn't foggy—it had been bad enough driving down the lonely road on a new moon when it was too dark to enjoy the scenery, he hadn't needed his car to start smoking as well. On top of that, he'd left his mobile phone back in his room.

After being dragged home for a day to be with his family and posing for pictures, all he had wanted was to escape to a town where no one would expect him, where he could hide in disguise for a day or two before returning to school. Now he was stranded with a busted car and no idea how far away the next town was.

"Well," he sighed, giving his car one last glare before turning up his collar and starting off down the road. "Might as well find someone with a phone."

At least his shoes were comfortable for a hike—mostly—but just as he was prepping himself for a very long walk, he spotted a faint glimmer of light. He paused and squinted into the night, but the light never faded. Grinning in relief that he finally found some luck, he began to hurry onward.

The light turned out to be a yard light, and despite the late hour, there were still lights on in the house. Murmuring a grateful prayer, he jogged up to the house and knocked briskly on the door.

After a few minutes, a woman came to the door and peeked out at him curiously. She was clad in a pair of very short shorts and a thin top, perhaps her pajamas, and a sweatshirt that was at least two times her size. "Can I help you?" she asked as she put one hand on her hip and cocked her head to the side.

She was a foreigner, he'd bet good money on it even if he couldn't place her accent with so few words to go on. He coughed. "Beg your pardon, but can I borrow your phone? My car broke down and I don't have my mobile on me."

She blinked at him. "You need a wrecker?"

He stared at her. "A what?"

"A—a breakdown lorry? Whatever, do you need to be towed?"

Shifting his weight from one foot to another, he nodded warily. "Yes."

She stepped out of her door, causing him to scramble back down a step to give her space; she raised an eyebrow at him before glancing down the road. "Well, I'll tell you right now, ain't no one gonna tow it until the morning. None of them boys are gonna get out of bed before dawn at least. What seems to be the problem?"

He gaped at her a moment before sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. _So much for luck._ "It started to make a funny noise, and then the engine started to smoke. Are you sure someone won't come help me until the morning?"

"Sure as can be," she quipped, turning back to him with a smile. "When's the last time you put antifreeze in the engine?"

"Antifreeze?"

"You aren't exactly the sharpest tool in the box, are ya?"

He gaped for a moment and then glared—it had been a while since anyone besides his siblings or his friends had insulted him so pointedly. "I beg your pardon?"

"Engine coolant," she explained. "When's the last time you refilled it?" He stared at her blankly; she actually laughed at him. "That might be your problem. Is your car all locked up?"

"Yes, of course."

She smiled at him and opened her door up wide as she stepped back and gestured him in. "Why doncha come in here out of the cold. You've got a long wait and I ain't sleepy in the least. We'll call you a wrecker in the morning and I'll give you a lift to the shop."

He was staring again—first she insulted him, now she was inviting him in. While he and his brothers like to tease their sister about women being so fickle, this woman seemed to beat all others in that category. "I think it would be better to go wait in my car."

"Nonsense! It's warm in here, and I could use the company. Besides, _I_ am the village's mechanic." She grinned. "So, it's not like you're out of my way. My name's Amelia Jones; welcome to my home."

He stared at her a moment, debating whether he could stand to be near such a rude person for a whole night. A stiff, chill breeze settled it for him and he stepped cautiously into the house. It _was_ warm inside; the door opened into a bright living room filled with little knickknacks and several bookcases, shelves full to the brim. She beamed at him despite his reserved expression and gestured to the coat rack beside him. "My name's Arthur," he said at last.

"All right then, Arthur. You can leave your coat and hat there and join me. Would you like something to drink?" she offered before turning to saunter off to the couch. For a moment, his gaze fell to her very long legs as the sweatshirt bounced along to her movements. What a pair of legs they were, long and strong, with actual meat on her calves and thighs, and delicate feet. It was a shame she was rude and the sweatshirt hid any curves from view—with legs like that, she had to have a lovely arse as well even if her personality might not match up.

"Well?"

He jerked his head up; she looked too amused for her not to have noticed where his gaze had been. "What?"

"Would you like something to drink?" she repeated with a grin.

"Oh, um, no, I'm fine," he answered before glancing away. Now they had both been rude; perhaps he should just call it even. How embarrassing at any rate—if his mother had seen that, she would have boxed his ears for it. God forbid he'd done it in front of any reporters; he shuddered and continued to keep his gaze firmly averted until they landed on the telly. He brightened as he realized what she was watching. "Is that Doctor Who?"

"Yep. I think it said it was 'Vincent and the Doctor'."

"Oh, that's a good episode!" he smirked and shrugged off his coat; he left his hat on to help hide his eyebrows. People tended to recognize him the moment they saw them since all of his siblings had the same eyebrows. Still, she didn't seem to mind as he joined her on the sofa.

"Don't tell me how it ends! I haven't seen it yet."

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><p>They spent most of the night watching television as they chatted; despite their rough start, Amelia made for a very chatty companion, and at least she was interesting enough not to bore him. She explained that she was American—<em>ah<em>, he thought, _that explains so much_—born in Philadelphia, but raised in the south until her parents split up, her mother taking her twin sister with her while she remained with her father. He taught her everything he knew of cars, but she ended up following her love of Tudor era history to England. A friend of her mother's rented the cottage out to her, and she had bought the auto repair shop when the former owner retired with no one else qualified to take over. She told him many stories, mostly quirky and amusing ones ranging from the time a snake got hooked onto her pant leg and was dragged behind her down a mountain as she ran screaming, to when she got drunk off her face doing shots of tequila with a man in Dublin who turned out to be a famous writer who left her with an autograph scrawled across her breasts which she only found once she woke up in the bathroom. He wasn't sure when he fell asleep, but it was late morning when he awoke, tucked under a quilt while the smell of bacon wafted through the air.

True to her word, she called the lorry and drove him to town on her motorcycle, some rare specimen of Harley-Davidson, but he missed most of the details as he stared in bemusement while she gushed over it. His eldest brother didn't dote on his children as much as Amelia cooed about her bike.

It was noon before they got his car in the shop; she diagnosed that he had overheated the engine, but decided to keep digging around as she kept finding other little problems that had left him mystified for months. They kept talking as she worked, him handing her tools whenever she demanded one. He should have been annoyed or at least bored, but she spoke with such good cheer and never pressed for more when a question hit a little too close to home that he enjoyed himself so much that he forgot to leave his hat on. It was actually a disappointment when she ran off to her office to answer her phone and came back carrying a newspaper. Across the front page, a picture of his family stared up at him damningly as she dropped the paper next to him.

Cringing at the loud thud of the paper, he glanced up at her. Her face was poker blank for a moment before her gaze flickered up to meet his eyes. Her lip trembled for a moment, but then her mouth quickly spread into a grin and she began to howl with laughter. "Ya know, I thought you looked familiar, but I gotta admit, I wasn't expecting that," she finally said, half collapsed against the engine. "Jesus, Meggy ain't never gonna believe I had a prince in my house. That explains why you get so fidgety when I ask you about your family. Well, heh, I suppose this means I should work extra hard on your car, to get it up to snuff, huh? Hand me the three quarter wrench, will ya?"

And that was all she said of the matter; he waited for something else, perhaps to be besieged by inquiries about what his family was really like or even a simple request for an autograph. Instead, she worked steadily on his car, her chatter kept to easier topics like who was the best Doctor. For being stranded in an out of the way village with an American who enjoyed occasionally insulting him, he was surprised by how relaxed he felt.

When it came time to close the shop, she explained that she would need time to fix his car. "And while I don't mind keeping you around for a houseguest, you probably have other things you want to do than putter around my house for a couple days, doncha?"

As interesting as the day had been, he had to shake his head. "I'm going to be expected back to school tomorrow afternoon—if my car isn't going to be fixed by then, I still need to head back."

She nodded and pulled out her mobile phone. "Got someone who can come get you? You can have them come pick you up at my house if you don't want to do it right in the middle of town."

Nodding gratefully, he took the phone and dialed the number of his flat mate and friend. After explaining what happened and listening to his Portuguese friend's mild teasing—then again, anything was mild in comparison to what his siblings could dish out—he agreed to come pick Arthur up.

"All taken care of?" Amelia asked as she took the phone back.

"Yes—my friend will take a few hours, but I'll be out of your hair before the day's out."

"Hooray, let's throw a party!"

He frowned as she began to wander over to her bike without him; she flashed him a cheeky grin as she held out the spare helmet to him. "I'm afraid that I just don't understand you, Miss Jones," he announced as he took the helmet from her.

"Amelia," she corrected him, leaning forward to give him space to settle in behind her. "And why's that, _Artie?"_

He glared up at her. "Arthur. My name is Arthur, and that is what you should call me by."

"Actually, I do believe I should call you 'your royal highness'," she quipped, digging her keys out of her pocket. "Now then, are you going to tell me why you don't understand me or are we gonna sit here and split hairs all night?"

He shoved his helmet on to stall for a moment. "What I don't understand is how you can be so rude one moment and so—so sociable the next."

She had the audacity to laugh at him. "Ah, that's simple. I just like to tease people and _you_ are very easy to tease. You get bent out of shape so easily."

It was a good thing she couldn't see his glare behind the helmet's visor. "Just drive."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Excuse me?"

Now he had to smirk. "What, getting 'bent out of shape' already?"

After a long, contemplative look, she tossed back her head and laughed. "So, you do have a sense of humor in there—I was beginning to wonder." Before he could reply, she started the engine and quickly sped off, leaving him to yelp and wrap his arms tightly around her waist.

They spent the wait bickering over snacks and picking apart whatever show they could find on Amelia's telly. Arthur was so caught up in their banter, that he nearly missed the firm knock at the door. Yelling one last time at the screen, Amelia got up and hurried to the door.

"Arthur," she called after a moment. "I think your ride's here."

Perking up, he stood and turned to the door only to find that it wasn't his roommate, but rather Kiku, one of his family's chauffeurs. Kiku was a nice chap when Arthur could talk to him alone, but he became stiff as a board when someone else joined them. "Your highness, I was sent here to collect you. If you have anything you need to take with you, please allow me to put them in the car for you. We can leave afterward."

Arthur frowned. "As grateful as I am, what are you doing here? I called my roommate, not any of the staff."

"It seems you were not the only one with car troubles—when he could not get his car to start, your roommate contacted the school, and they got in touch with your parents."

_Well_, he mused as he hesitantly nodded, _seems as though my little holiday is over._ He paused, confused at his own thought before shaking his head and walking over to grab his coat and hat. Once he pulled them on, he turned back to them. "I'm ready."

Kiku nodded. "Someone will come to collect your car and return it to the palace for repairs. I am sure you will have it back shortly."

Amelia snorted behind them. "Does this mean I'm not gonna get paid?"

Kiku stared at her—perhaps he had forgotten she was there in the first place—and began to apologize, quick to assure her that he hadn't meant that she wouldn't receive some compensation. Arthur watched as she laughed and soothed Kiku. Watching them, Arthur quietly made his decision.

"Actually, I would prefer it if Miss Jones were the one to finish the repairs."

Now both Kiku and Amelia were staring at him; while he had spent his entire life being stared at, for some reason the intensity of their stares slipped past his defenses and began to needle at him so he had to struggle not to fidget. At last, Amelia smiled and turned from them. "If that's the case, I'm gonna need a second."

As she slipped out of the room, turning a corner and out of sight, Kiku took his chance and leaned over to whisper. "Your highness, are you certain of this? Your parents have already arranged for someone to pick the car up."

Arthur coughed to clear his throat while he fumbled with his coat buttons. "Quite sure. I'll call my parents and tell them myself if need be."

Kiku paused as if expecting more before leaning back and nodding.

Amelia finally returned, holding a folded up piece of paper. "My number," she explained as she handed the sheet to Arthur. "In case you need to get a hold of me for the car."

Without thinking, Arthur took the slip of paper and quickly stuffed into his pocket, rather than let Kiku intercept it. His poor chauffeur looked a little baffled, but fortunately didn't ask what had gotten into his prince; to be fair, Arthur wasn't sure he could explain it.

After a bit more talking, Kiku finally managed to herd Arthur out the door. As he slipped into the back seat of the car, his hand slipped into his pocket to run his fingers over the note.

Bizarrely, the note felt like a promise or a sign. Arthur carefully curled his fingers around it and wondered what it could mean.

And that was the beginning.


	7. Won't you feline my Valentine?

**A/N: Awful, awful pun in the title aside, I want to say, I am SO sorry. My computer apparently caught a virus-on , so be careful, apparently-and had to be restored to factory settings. Thankfully, my files got saved first. So, here's the final chapter, based on the "Valentine's Day" prompt and contains both slash and... cat!het?**

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><p>When an animal lived with a nation, strange things would begin to happen to that animal. Their lives would lengthen, their health would improve to the point that they rarely got sick, and their intelligence would grow. America's whale was more than twice as old as any of its wild brethren, Japan's cat could <em>talk<em> (which made for a frightening but hilarious party gag), and Prussia's chick ran a blog.

In comparison to these animals, Little Al—his actual name was Ben, but Canada had been the one to nickname him Little Al and it stuck—was a pretty ordinary cat. He was over ten years old now, and although he still acted like a spritely kitten, America only had to "misremember" how old he was and people would accept it. He only just begun to "speak" to the other nations' cats, and even that was a struggle. However, just because he wasn't as old as his fellow cats didn't mean he was stupid; he was perfectly capable of making astute observations, particularly when it came to his master and his boyfriend.

There were plenty of things he slowly began to realize his master did that regular humans didn't. For one, humans couldn't just be sitting one minute in Boston then get up and take one literal step before arriving in Las Vegas. A human couldn't reattach a limb if it was cut off (a chainsaw accident involving a surprise visit from Canada and a misfiring shotgun, but that was all Tony would say to Little Al).

But at least his master still celebrated like a human. Every year on the day before his birthday, his master invited most of the neighborhood for a giant barbeque and fireworks show which meant plenty of dropped food for Little Al to eat. At Christmas he put up a massive tree and long strings of lights that served to delight Little Al for hours at a time.

Valentine's Day, however, remained a mystery to him.

"They're fighting again," he commented as he sat down next to Rose.

"When aren't they fighting?" she quipped as she daintily cleaned her paws. The Scottish fold cat cared little for whatever their masters were quarrelling about. Little Al had always both wary and complete awe of the molly; she was twice as aloof and disinterested as any cat Little Al had ever met, and that was after one took into consideration his Maine Coon disposition. Tama, Japan's cat, once told Little Al that it might have something to do with the fact that for the longest time, England labored under the belief that Rose was male and called her Watson for years before she had her first litter. Whether she felt slighted or just had a hormone problem, Rose rarely interacted with their fellow cats, and only allowed Little Al's presence because America was very fond of taking his pet everywhere with him, including her master's home. For the most part, Little Al assumed that she didn't care too much for him, but she made for an interesting acquaintance and conversationalist when he could get her to talk.

"But what are they fighting about this time?" he asked; as he watched her groom, his gaze flickered to his own coat. The fur on his flanks could use some straightening, he mused, and quickly set to fixing it.

"Valentine's Day gifts. Just as they did last year, and all the years before that. You would think they'd learn, but they never do."

He glanced up mid stroke, tongue caught between his teeth. "What's so important about Valentine's Day, anyway?"

Rose sneered at him. "Put your tongue away—you look ridiculous."

Cocking his head to the side, he pulled his tongue back. "Well, you might want to worry more about the hair sticking up on the back of your head rather than my tongue. Want some help with that?"

The molly quickly began to try to flatten the nonexistent unruly fur outside of her vision. She tried her best and growled each time he lied about it until at last she gave in and let him groom the back of her head.

"You smell good," he said as he paused to nuzzle at her neck. He _recognized_ that smell; Rose growled and batted him away.

"Enough of that, tomcat," she snapped as she smacked his nose. "I'm in no mood for your mischief."

_Well, crap,_ he thought, _better change topics._ "Well," he said after he glanced back to their owners, "it looks like America and your England are about done."

Sure enough, as soon as he spoke, his master turned on his heel with one last exasperated shout and stalked out the door, slamming it hard enough that both cats flinched along with England.

"Uh oh," Little Al murmured, ears dropping as England continued to breathe heavily, like when Little Al gave him and America their afternoon exercise of chasing him around the house as they tried to rescue their stolen lunch. "I think it was something bad this time."

"Nonsense. If it were, America would have taken you with him," Rose replied primly as she stood and walked over to her master. Little Al watched with great amusement and no little awe as the stuffy molly turned on her charm and began to wind herself around her master's legs, mewling sympathetically up at him. He quickly scooped her up and carried her to the couch where he promptly pressed his nose into her neck and tried to calm his breath. Rose shot Little Al a pointed look; catching his cue, the tom hurried from his spot and jumped up into England's lap, purring like a motor. Gradually, England calmed down until he began to mutter curses and insults about America. Had it been anyone else, Little Al would have left them with some shredded clothing and numerous wounds to teach them better, but since America liked England and the green eyed man would usually slip him some tasty treat when no one was looking, Little Al could never hold a few unkind words against him.

For the next few hours, once England worked himself into a big enough fit to clean every inch of the house in sight without mercy, there was little either cat could do but wait. It was near eleven at night and England was just about to ruin some good cuts of salmon when the doorbell rang. They watched as England warily approached the door.

Of course it was America; Little Al perked up at hearing his owner's voice while Rose grumbled and wondered if perhaps he returned to make amends or to just rile her master up more. However, despite some rough words for greetings, both cats watched with interest—or rather, to be truthful to Rose, _dis_interest—as both nations quickly warmed back up to each other when America produced a rather large bag of sweets.

"Great, now they'll make enough racket to keep half the neighborhood awake," Rose groused as their masters quickly began to trip up the stairs, too busy trying to suck each other's faces off to see where they were going.

Little Al smiled after them before turning to the molly. "I know something that can cheer you up."

Perhaps it was a sign that she'd spent too much time with her owner that she actually raised one of her thick patches of fur above her eyes, like a human arching an eyebrow. Still, it amused him enough that he ignored the condescension in her gaze as he hopped off the couch and padded into the kitchen.

Thankfully, England had forgotten to do two things; one was that he failed to even turn the stove on, although that was a blessing since Little Al would have been clueless to turn it off, even if he did somehow grow fingers to turn the knob. Secondly, he'd also forgotten to put the salmon cuts away. Chirping in delight, Little Al climbed up and grabbed a few slices before carrying back to the living room. With little thought to the stain it would leave on the sofa, he dropped a piece on the cushion for Rose before curling up next to her with his own slices.

"Happy Valentine Day, Rosie," Little Al chirped, nuzzling her neck again—she smelled _really_ good—purring deep in his throat.

"Alright, alright," she chuckled and batted her head against his in a rare sign of affection. "Save it until _after_ dinner, tomcat."

Little Al perked up and quickly turned his attention to devouring his food as she laughed at him.

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><p>Near three months later, America got a very aggravated call from England. Tony shook his head while Little Al preened as America tried to get out of taking half of the new litter of Maine CoonScottish Fold mix kittens home with him. Even when America turned his half amused, not very disapproving gaze upon the cat, Little Al only twitched his tail and chirped up at him.


End file.
